


Butter Batch

by Brorifles (Kyloisadisneyprincess)



Series: Good Omens snapshots [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyloisadisneyprincess/pseuds/Brorifles
Summary: Butter Batch: The name of a hair color also a type of biscuit.As we all know, She spilled the bastard sprinkles when she made Aziraphale. Little does Crowley know that Angel's are made by the batch.





	Butter Batch

Crowley can't see why cake and horderves are emergency. But Crowley's all too indulgent to say no he won't swing by and pick up the orders at Aziraphale's favorite restaurants and patisseries.

Whatever, his expectation for the reasoning behind the sudden and exorbitant amount food, Crowley did not expect to be greeted at the bookshop door by a pile of holy weapons. The swords and the like were discarded in a haphazard arrangement that required some dexterous hopscotch maneuvers. All this Crowley did while balancing the precious boxes of foodstuffs he'd been summoned to provide.

"Angel!" Crowley gasped, finally safe on 'clear' thankfully only book littered ground. It's not that Aziraphale wasn't normally careless. But Crowley had come to expect a little more discretion with holy objects in the bookshop. "Angel?" Crowley says again. He spots Aziraphale immediately, looking warmly at him from his arm chair. 

Only, one angel, two angel, three angel… four? A half dozen holy beings dot the musty dark bookshop. Each with a shock of blonde hair. Upturned noses and round faces all lock attentive blue eyes on Crowley. He is unsure if he wants to run or demand an explanation.

But he can sense that he is in no immediate danger. All Angels appear to be at their leisure. The eldest looking one sits on the couch opposite Aziraphale and sports a well kept beard. Another younger looking one is sprawled out on the rug between them. They don't appear to be keen on producing any evidence of human gender.

Two more are side by side at the piano. One very poorly plucking out a melody and the other hushedly singing a hedonistic and in no way correctly rhymed version of "Favourite Things"

Another is curled up between a stack of shelves hoarding as many open books as they have inter dimensional hands. Each additional eye flicking along at it's own pace. And last is his own Aziraphale comfortably sipping at his tea.

Explanation follows swiftly. It had better or Crowley is going to transform into the smallest snake he can be and slither in a hole to hide.

"Dear boy! You've got everything?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yes?" Crowley stutters.

"Well come set those down. I must introduce you to my guests."

Guests. Since when does Aziraphale have guests?

"You see, Crowley we've left heaven in quite a logistical mess after the apocalypse was averted and my siblings decided to take advantage of the lapse in management to visit earth"

"Siblings?" 

"Yes dear, my batch if you like. We were all cooked up at the same time."

Crowley by now if doing mental flips. His Aziraphale is original yes, no one quite like him. Not even these that were made with the same breath. And yet he is being presented with a batch of buttery locks and rosey cheeks and sky colored eyes. Aziraphale takes his hand and anchors him through the overwhelm. 

He learns the names: Imael, Anaephale, Ezariel, Anieriel, Nasirael.

Indulges them their questions: Is it always so clean? Does he just do what you tell him? Has he ever tried to hurt you? Don't demons only lust not love? And: do you make sure to use protection?

The answers are all no.

They drink and eat as Aziraphale tells the story of the last 6,000 years in as much brevity as his love addled brain can manage. Crowley curls up against his side offering the occasional bit of dark humor that, thankfully, makes the bastard in all of them laugh.

Slowly their little gathering trickles away, cake half eaten. Aziraphale locks the shop door.

"So, what did you think?"

Crowley for a moment considers his answer.

"Bastards, the lot of you." He says with an uptick of lips. "But I've got the worst one."

And now, if Aziraphale did choose to throw cake a Crowley's face for that comment then, he'd certainly need to prove that he's a good little angel by cleaning the mess up.


End file.
